Stars
by fakeditfromthewordgo
Summary: 'There was nothing special about this place. It was just a giant piece of metal, overly-commercial and built for people under the age of ten. Combine this with the always uplifting situation of a bunch of dying kids thrown into a group, and you had the perfect day out.' Drabble. AU.


"Don't rush, Hazel, Isaac," Patrick called to us. "We'll wait for you!"

Resisting the urge to scowl deeply, I forced a smile. "It's fine. Don't worry about me." Although he paused for a second, Patrick nodded, and continued forwards. Isaac grumbled something less than complimentary about him, which I ignored. What was the point in disliking people when you couldn't escape from the inevitable truth that you would die before them?

The Support Group was at the local observatory - Patrick had described it as a 'once-in-a-lifetime' opportunity, too excited as always, and no one had the heart to tell him we passed it almost every day. There was nothing special about this place. It was just a giant piece of metal, overly-commercial and built for people under the age of ten. Combine this with the always uplifting situation of a bunch of dying kids thrown into a group, and you had the perfect day out.

Obviously, it blew.

I'd begged Mom to let me skip it, because I hadn't even totally agreed to attending Support Group on a regular basis yet, let alone weekend extras in the middle of ANTM marathons. But then she'd given the 'anxious' look, and told me she was worried about me, telling me all this bullshit about how having cancer doesn't necessarily mean I should be sad. She doesn't get that sadness isn't a side-effect of cancer. Sadness is a side-effect of dying, and one I was less likely to suffer from when sprawled across the sofa than with people who were also dying.

Except Isaac. Isaac could stay.

"This is so stupid," said the guy in question, scuffing his trainers angrily against the cheap nylon carpet as we walked. "I can't even see the freaking stars. Why would I want to come to an observatory? I'm not a little bit handicapped, I'm blind. Why can't she get that?" I was pretty sure he wasn't talking to me, but I listened to his rants anyway. They drowned out the sounds of cooing mothers and little kids. I didn't do parental relationships, outside of my own, because I didn't need 'I'm not going to be a Mom any more' to hurt any more than it already did. Isaac's current hatred of his own Mom was not only amusing, but served to help me ignore my surroundings.

"Isaac," I said eventually, stopping him mid-sentence, and mid-walk as I paused. "I'm going to grab a drink. Want anything?"

He shook his head. "No, the taste of betrayal can't be washed away." I laughed, and he smiled. "I'm gonna go ahead. I'll be slow, catch me up, okay?"

I nodded, before realising he couldn't see, and replied, "Okay."

The line at the 'Intergalactic Liquid Exchange' was non-existent, and I couldn't imagine why, with a name like that. I purchased a Diet Coke, and sipped at it as I wandered vaguely in the general direction Isaac went.

There wasn't a lot of people around, and my eyes traced the constellations along the walls as I sauntered along, pulling my cart along with me. Little kids stared, one or two even pointed, and I had to resist the insane urge to wave. Hey, I'm Hazel, and I'm a human exhibit of the side-effects of dying.

No one stared quite like him, though.

His blue eyes were impossible to miss, bright against the darkness of his short dark hair. Mouth slightly curved as he gazed at me, I couldn't help but blush a little because, well, the guy was hot. And staring at me.

Now, I'm sure this might come as somewhat of a surprise to you, but cancer kids don't tend to get stared at by hot guys all that often, least of all me.

Needless to say, I could've fainted from surprise when he actually made his way over to me.

Of course, I didn't. "Why are you staring at me?"

He raised his eyebrows, clearly a little taken aback by my riveting conversation starter, but he didn't miss a beat: "Because you're beautiful."

"No," I almost laughed, "I'm not." My fingers inconspicuously went to the nubbins in my nose, and his eyes followed them.

He stopped, and, next to him, I did too. He pulled his trouser leg up, exposing a wooden leg. I tried to hide my surprise as he let go, and continued walking forward.

"Osteosarcoma," he explained quietly, a moment later.

"Thyroid, with mets in my lungs," I said in way of reply. "And Hazel Grace Lancaster."

Glancing at me, he smiled again. "Augustus Waters. Pleased to meet your acquaintance."

"I know," I said, and pointed at his name tag when his eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Trainee?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Mom said I needed a job, so…"

"And you don't mind that?"

"I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up." he replied dryly, and the corners of my mouth quirked. "Weird, huh?" He changed the subject abruptly, gesturing to one of the huge paintings on the ceiling, one that depicted a particularly complex constellation. "How small they are compared to us, and how small we are compared to them."

I shrugged. "We're small compared to anything. That's a side-effect of life. Please, if the idea that you are small in comparison to the solar system worries you, learn to ignore it, because God knows how ants feel."

Our eyes met, and this time he was really, really smiling. "I knew there was a reason I came over to you."

All guilty thoughts of Isaac pushed back, we walked in silence for a while longer, taking in the sights that he must've seen a million times, before he turned to me again. "So, enjoying yourself, Hazel Grace?"

"I'm having the time of my life," I replied sarcastically. "Honestly. I thought I'd at least see the stars, in an observatory, but no. Just crappy paintings."

"If you come back another time," he said, eyes strong against mine, "I'll show you the stars."

And right then, I realised that Augustus Waters could show me more the stars.

There were a lot of side-effects of dying.

But maybe he could become a side-effect of living, because the stars were a side-effect of him.


End file.
